Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Under… “.

Cumbria UK: Good afternoon John, I’m further north this week, Cumbria, in fact, in the spectacular Lake District and yes, it looks exactly like the pictures on the box of Derwent and Lakeland pencils we all had as kids.

Up here, people don’t go for a walk, they go for a ramble – and later, in the pubs, they ramble even more – just like I’m doing right now!

I’m feeling a little sore and sorry for myself at the moment, as will become apparent in this weeks offering – not as sore and sorry as Rupert Murdoch, but I know the pain.

I should add no phones were hacked to produce this weeks poem – and if they were, well, I’m keeping it under my hat.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20110717.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Under…

I was under the impression it would be a gentle stroll
A ramble down the valley across a modest knoll

We’d barely left the car park before the seeds of doubt
As we meandered in some bloke was stretchered out

The English, bless their garters, are an ordered bunch of souls
Won’t walk around the block without a backpack, boots and poles

So the sight of hikers, kitted out, trekking cross the fells
Slipped right under my radar, didn’t trigger any bells

It wasn’t till we reached what were labelled “gentle slopes”
That I fully comprehended why the others carried ropes

The so called “slight incline” was a vertical ascent
It felt as though my backpack had been filled with wet cement

They warned me there’d be rocks but these were bleeding boulders
The only way over was to mount each others shoulders

Since I brought up the rear I lost badly on the deal
The duration of the climb I spent under the heel

My self esteem was shattered, not at being last
When an octogenarian in a wheelchair sped on past

But, according to the map, assuming it was right
There were steps up to the summit, which should provide respite

The steps were there, thirty odd, that, I can’t deny
But each one of those bastards was twenty metres high

One thing kept me going each time I stopped to spew
From the peak, the guide books promised, Britain’s finest view

Southwards, Morecambe Bay, The Irish Sea, due west
Pikes and fells, both north and east, would justify this quest

I finally made the summit and beheld the visual treat
Grey in all directions; in fact I couldn’t see my feet

A mist encased the mountain; an ashen, lifeless, shroud
Here I was under the weather and now under a bloody cloud

As I proudly punched the air for having made it up alive
I bumped into a couple with three children under five

My joy was premature as I was shortly to lament
Cause the torture going up was as bad on the descent

I lagged behind the others; I was tempted just to jump
I was under the gun, under pressure and constantly under the pump

Eleven hours it took me, eleven miserable hours
Then queued up for another two, last in line for showers

I retired to the bar, a broken man, exhausted, scarcely sane
It took five pints to quench my thirst, five more to dull the pain

In hindsight was it worth it? You draw your own conclusions
From now on all I’ll scale is fish – I’m under no illusions

© Copyright 2011 Ian Bland

One comment on “Bland On Bland – Under…

  • So funny but it is true that we all know what you mean! Ian you could be Australia’s answer to Bill Bryson. Thanks for the chuckle. Look forward to the next installment.Jan R x

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